Spark and Burn

by Diana G. Gallagher

  “Kill one and the next in line is called,” Angelus said. “There’s no point in taking the risk.”

  The risk is the point, Spike thought, but he held his tongue. His companions did not need to know that he would never be content preying solely on those weaker than himself. Nothing less than meeting the challenge of killing an equal or superior adversary could erase the scars left from his life.

  “I smell food,” Dru said as they approached a clearing. “But it’s foul with onions.”

  “An estate,” Darla said. She paused beside Angelus at the edge of the woods and stared across an expanse of meadow. A mansion, backlit by a rising moon, crowned the distant knoll.

  “Dru must have gotten a whiff of the stableman.” Angelus gestured toward a stone barn and cottage at the bottom of the slope. A stooped man finished hanging a clean harness on hooks just inside the barn doors, then picked up a lantern and hurried past a coach toward the small house.

  “I’ve never acquired a taste for peasant,” Darla said, taking Angelus’s arm. “I’d rather get a bite in town.”

  “With a coach and four to carry us, we can be aboard a ship bound for France before dawn. You need a new hat.” Angelus plucked Darla’s damaged hat off her head and sent it sailing high into a tree.

  Spike was heartened by the glimpse of the impetuous rogue who Darla had fallen in love with and who Angelus tried too hard to suppress. Perhaps the old boy had just needed a bit of a brawl to rekindle his spirit of adventure.

  “Is the Slayer in France?” Spike asked.

  “Forget the Slayer,” Angelus said. “I don’t know where she is and wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

  Sunnydale

  September 2002

  The Slayer was in the high school basement, looking for Dawn. And having a testy chat with a gang of spirits. A dead girl, in particular, seemed to be nursing a nasty grudge.

  “I was ripped to death by a werewolf. Is that why you let me die?”

  “I was screaming for help when they pulled me down through—” a boy interjected.

  Spike scowled. They were noisier than the phantoms buzzing about in his brain, and all of them looking to settle a score with the Slayer. Annoyed, he turned on the overhead bulb.

  “Hello? Not making myself clear,” Buffy snapped with crisp Slayer sarcasm. “I don’t care how you died. I’m sorry for your loss, but where is my sister? Dawn!”

  “She’s not going to hear you,” the man said. “This place is like a maze.”

  “This place is ours now. It was built on our graves.”

  Spike rolled his eyes, exasperated by the girl’s whining. The sodding ingrates didn’t understand the rules. Slayers were empowered to kill vampires and other evil beasties of the down below. Saving people was a happenstance of the job, although Buffy took it more to heart than others. It wasn’t her fault a few slipped through the cracks.

  “Get over it already,” Spike mumbled.

  “All we want is for you to leave, so we can rest again.”

  Not hardly, Spike thought. The spirit man’s tone suffered from a severe lack of sincerity. The Slayer wasn’t buying his line either.

  “Actually, I’m thinking all you want is to get between me and that door,” Buffy said. “Who’s for finding out why?”

  When the fight broke out, Spike glanced at the latches securing the door. Thick steel muffled the grunts and squeals and the thud of bodies thrown against drywall and concrete. Three against one, but the Slayer was probably winning.

  “You said she was dangerous.” Adam stepped out of the shadows. “ ‘When the big ugly goes down, the Slayer’s going to be right in the thick of it.’ ”

  Spike hadn’t been wrong about that. A horde of ambitious demons had initiated one insidious plan after another in Sunnydale, and failed time and time again because Buffy was always jumping in to muck things up.

  “Not the least of which was you,” Adam reminded him. The truth, uttered in Adam’s matter-of-fact monotone, mocked the Big Bad rep Spike had ruthlessly cultivated once upon a time. “You have a long, humiliating history of defeat at the hands of this Slayer.”

  “You should have taken me to France,” Harmony chided. “Then Buffy never would have gotten the best of you.”

  “If at first you don’t succeed,” Buffy mocked the manifest demons in the corridor outside the door. “Cheat.”

  Spike flinched when the Slayer shook the doors. He doubted that going to France with Harmony would have saved him. He wasn’t sure what could have; he didn’t know at what point it had been too late.

  Chapter Three

  Sunnydale

  September 1997

  “Cockles and mussels all die, all die-o.” Dru sat in the wing-backed chair, singing softly as she sorted lengths of velvet ribbon. When she found a color that pleased her, she placed it on the trunk serving as a bed table.

  Spike tugged on the chains and manacles he had bolted to the ceiling. Satisfied they would hold, he glanced at Dru with a wry smile. The array of pipes running the length of the storeroom wall was a fitting contrast to the elegance of the gold-embroidered brocade canopy, pillows, and coverlets he had nicked from a local mansion. The concessions to Dru’s comfort prettied up the place but didn’t change the fact that they were living in a factory. On the other hand, Drusilla’s craven demonic essence was enhanced, rather than diminished, by her beauty and domestic activities. Deception was one of evil’s most effective weapons.

  Spike used pretense on occasion, when it worked in his favor. He had asked the Anointed One for time to settle Dru into her new home, but his feigned submission to the Wee Wonder’s authority had been a calculated ploy. He wanted to avoid the St. Vigeous rituals, which served no purpose but to keep the subordinates pumped up, and he needed free time to acquaint himself with Sunnydale and the resident Slayer.

  “Now where’s my Blue Britches?” Dru’s brow knit in consternation. Light from candles flickering in wall sconces and a Tiffany-style lamp was reflected in the burnished wood of the four-poster and added false color to her gaunt cheeks.

  “Britches?” Spike asked in alarm. Drusilla thought pants unbecoming a lady and rarely wore them. “Are you still cold?”

  “I can’t abide the incessant chatter.” Dru touched her fingers to her temples. “All the busybody little ladies and monks telling tales. The vicar spits when he’s riled.”

  “That’s just the minion masses begging St. Vigeous for a power boost,” Spike said with a nod toward the door. The repetitive dirge was getting on his nerves as well. “If chanting could give any bloke the grit to kill a slayer, the Annoying One wouldn’t have a slayer problem, would he?”

  “There she is.” Dru’s attention shifted abruptly. She reached for the doll dressed in a blue suit with white ruffles lying on the bed. “Time to hush-a-bye.”

  Spike watched as Drusilla tied a ribbon around the doll’s mouth to silence its imaginary voice. He didn’t know what she heard—or thought she heard. He figured the mental mumblings she mentioned from time to time went with having a prescient mind. He was more concerned with how much weaker she had become the past few months.

  “Tell you what, luv,”—Spike crossed to the chair and gently touched Drusilla’s pale face—“you finish gagging the dolls, and I’ll get you someone to eat.”

  “Someone pretty,” Drusilla said with an impish smile. “Our host has no taste in people.”

  “Yeah, they are an ugly bunch.” When Spike bent down to kiss her cheek, Drusilla handed him the doll wearing blue britches. He tossed it on the bed and paused by the door on his way out.

  Drusilla reached into the steamer trunk and pulled out a doll dressed in pink. Settling back in her chair, she sang as she knotted a pink ribbon around its mouth. “Hush-a-bye, I’ll make you cry, crushed by pretty lit’le horses . . .”

  As he left, Spike sensed another vampire approaching and intercepted him before he entered Dru’s space. “Taking a break from choir practice?”

&nb
sp; The large vampire who had earlier challenged Spike hesitated, thrown off by his casual attitude. “The chant will be more potent at midnight.”

  “They always are.” Spike smiled. “Just so we’re clear, mate, I don’t take kindly to anyone poking around my digs.”

  “The one you’re with—” The brute grimaced. “She’s sick.”

  “I’m not,” Spike said coldly.

  Big Ugly didn’t take the hint. “But you protect her instead of purging the helpless from the pack, and that makes you weak.”

  Spike grabbed the big vampire’s coat in both fists and shoved him across the corridor into the opposite wall. The fool had probably thought an emotional attachment was a sign of weakness when he was alive, too. Spike didn’t want to test the Anointed One’s patience and power with a killing just yet, but he could threaten this wanker.

  “Any harm comes to Dru, and no one in this factory will be around to chant at midnight.” Spike released his hold and stepped back. “But if you stopped by to borrow a pint, I was just on my way out.”

  Big Ugly didn’t stand down or let down his guard.

  “I hate arguing on empty veins,” Spike quipped. “Where’s the best place to shop?”

  “The Bronze,” the vampire said. “It’s a club in the warehouse district where the young ones hang out.”

  “Take-out teens, eh?” Although Dru could defend herself, Spike did not want to tax her strength. He started to leave and looked back at the other vampire. “Coming?”

  Big Ugly didn’t jump at the invitation. “The Slayer might be there.”

  “Bonus points for a sighting,” Spike said, grinning.

  Killing a slayer wasn’t without risk, and the sooner he got a handle on this one’s quirks and habits, the better his chances when the showdown came. Stupidity had never been one of his shortcomings. While Dru and Darla were gorging on Chinese marinated in fear during the Boxer Rebellion, he had been stalking his first slayer.

  Beijing

  1900

  After night fell, Spike and Dru made their way to Darla’s apartment to invite her along on a romp through the riot tearing through the streets. She had been in a contrary mood earlier, a variation of the generally unpleasant disposition that had taken root after Angelus left. Drusilla told Spike that an outing might cheer up their friend.

  “I didn’t expect you back so soon.” Darla closed the lid on her jewelery case and fastened the latch. “Was the slaughter boring? It’s not even midnight.”

  “Boring?” Spike laughed. “Not hardly. The bloody Boxers are carving up anyone that gets in their way. European merchants, American missionaries, imperial officials—makes no never-mind to them. I don’t think I ever really appreciated how bloodthirsty some humans can be.”

  “They’re religious fanatics,” Darla pointed out. “Men who are driven by spiritual conviction will commit any heinous atrocity they deem necessary to achieve their ends.”

  “The Righteous Harmonious Fists,” Spike said. The secret society’s true name was an accurate description of the group’s zealotry.

  Darla pulled the curtain back to look out the window. “Look at them. They seethe with fanatical purpose and fervor. They glory in their war, protected by their charms, so certain the cause they champion is just.”

  “The Boxers were pure of purpose when they rebelled against the imperial government.” Angelus strolled out of Darla’s bedchamber. His long hair was damp, and the scent of lavender lingered on his skin. “Now they’ve betrayed their honor to preserve the dowager empress they once swore to depose.”

  “Angelus!” Spike spread his arms and grinned, surprised and genuinely delighted by his grandsire’s return.

  Angelus had vanished two years before, on the night they had massacred a band of gypsies in Romania. Angry and aggrieved, Darla had refused to discuss the irreconcilable dispute that had driven her lover away. Whatever the cause, all seemed to be forgiven now, Spike noted as Darla handed Angelus a pair of gold cufflinks.

  “Where have you been?” Spike asked, curious.

  “Following bodies across two continents, trying to find you.” Angelus clipped the cuffs of his shirt then knotted his tie and buttoned a red vest he had pilfered from a dead Bavarian investment banker. Darla had kept the vest, his long coat, and a suit of clothes in case he returned.

  “You’re late, Angelus,” Dru scolded. “Grandmother has been very cross.”

  “Actually, you’re just in time,” Spike said, deciding not to pry.

  “Time for what?” Angelus asked warily.

  Spike threw an arm around the taller vampire’s broad shoulders and turned him toward the window. Something about Angelus offended his senses, a taint that he couldn’t define. He dropped his arm and stared toward the distant Buddhist temple that served as the Slayer’s training arena.

  “I found her,” Spike said. “The Slayer.”

  “Did you, now?” Angelus narrowed his eyes. “By accident or were you looking?”

  “I sought her out, of course,” Spike said. “Like I said I would.”

  He had searched for twenty years, but every slayer he located died before he could mount a challenge. Then Darla had gotten it into her head to tour China. They had arrived in Beijing days before an army of religious warriors began murdering any foreigners who didn’t flee. A cataclysmic ambience of fear infected the city, spicing every kill, but preying on the helpless ceased to satisfy when Spike heard about a girl who killed monsters. He had tracked the Slayer to the temple.

  “Then you’re a fool,” Angelus said. “Soon to be a dead fool. Slayers have superhuman strength and reflexes, and their skills are honed and tempered with intensive physical and mental disciplines.”

  “Does that mean you don’t want to take a jab or two of your own?” Spike asked, though he had no intention of sharing the glory. He knew from previous discussions that Angelus wouldn’t risk a fight with the Slayer. The older vampire had nothing to prove—to himself or anyone. William, however, had not yet eradicated the trauma of contempt and ridicule heaped upon him throughout his childhood, adolescence, and young manhood.

  “I’ve got better things to do tonight.” Angelus moved away from the window and walked over to Darla.

  “Let’s find some frightened people to play hide-and-seek with,” Dru suggested. “Or perhaps we should call on the empress. She might ask us to tea.”

  “That sounds like a good idea, Spike,” Darla said, taking Angelus’s arm. “The empress won’t take off your head or drive a stake through your heart.”

  Spike held his temper as the couple left the room and dismissed him and his bold talk about fighting a Slayer. In the two decades since Drusilla had made him, he had vanquished demons, bullied vampires, and outsmarted human mobs alongside Angelus and Darla. He had never flinched or failed to stand his ground. Yet they still regarded him as Drusilla’s pet. Killing a slayer was his only hope of winning their respect.

  Taking Drusilla’s hand, Spike raced out of the hotel. He lapsed into a determined silence as he guided her through narrow dirt streets jammed with refugees, oxen, and carts loaded with furniture and bundles. The air was thick with smoke and ash, and they narrowly escaped being buried under a burning building that collapsed as they passed. No corner of the ancient city was free of the stench of charred flesh or the sounds of human terror.

  Spike pulled Drusilla under the red-tiled portico of the temple just as an explosion showered the area with burning embers.

  “It’s raining fire.” Drusilla stared at a small fountain in the garden courtyard and gasped when a hot coal struck the basin and sizzled out. She shrank back.

  “You’ll be safe here.” Spike drew her toward the towering temple doors and eased her down onto a curved bench. “You’ll know when she’s dead—or I am.”

  “I’ll hear the angels screaming,” Dru said, giving not a hint whether that bode well for him or not.

  Spike opened the massive doors just wide enough to pass through and str
ode into the Slayer’s den. Two large statues of stylized lions flanked the wide entry-way. Smaller figurines of Buddha, lions, and dragons sat on ornately sculpted wooden chests on the perimeter walls. The floor was inlaid with etched wooden tiles, and shelves carved into the supporting columns held more replicas of the revered Chinese Buddha. Red lanterns and clusters of candles cast everything in crimson light, while flames from encroaching fires singed the wooden latticework over the windows.

  Spike sensed the Slayer before he saw her.

  Holding a sword above her head, the slim girl charged from behind a giant central Buddha. Her movements were unrestricted by her loose tunic and pants, and she wore her long black hair woven into the single braid of a warrior. Barely a hundred pounds, with a delicate heart-shaped face, she did not look capable of hurting anyone.

  Spike snaked his hand out to grab her wrist but clutched air as the girl ducked and rolled. She ducked again when he took a wild swing at her head, and then rocked him back with a fist to the chin. He staggered, eluding the sword she was whipping around her head with the strength and expertise of a seasoned fighter.

  Spike wasn’t certain what he had been expecting. Perhaps, in his demonic arrogance, he had thought the tales of young girls adept at killing vampires were exaggerated. But as he stood facing the girl, he realized the stories were inadequate. Perfectly balanced on one foot with the sword raised over her head, the Slayer was as powerful and focused on his destruction as the legend had promised.

  But Spike was not without his own resources. He had diligently honed his skills and fine-tuned his vampirically enhanced reflexes over the years. His efforts had been pursued with the resolve of a victim bent on vengeance and vindication. A mild-mannered man without distinction in life, he would not be one of ten thousand undistinguished henchmen in death. Underneath the insolent, carefree facade, he aspired to a greatness that went far beyond impressing Darla and Angelus. His reputation as a vampire of ruthless cunning and audacity would be known and respected throughout the world.

  Starting today, Spike thought as the girl rushed him again. The sword sliced the air, missing him twice before cutting him above the eye. The sting was the catalyst that aroused the demon within. He felt his features shift into vampire form, and he took another blow that sent him reeling backward.